Collezione
by frankenfeels
Summary: A collection of ficlets, mini-fills, and mini-mini fills written by me from the sherlockbbc fic kink meme.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: These are just ficlets, mini-fills, and mini-mini-fills of prompts on the sherlockbbc_fic kink meme. I'll be putting the prompt (which will be italicized) and then the ficlet or whatever. They're too short to be placed in their own story so just think of this as a collection of short stories. These _could _be considered part of the same universe and tied together (and if not, I'll mention that they're not). I don't think that I'm going to post them by part (as you can see a common thread among the first four by their parts) but, rather, by their tone and content. These first four are somewhat of a melancholy state.

Also note that there aren't any spoilers - where at least I don't _think _there is. If I think so, I'll put "Spoilers!" in big, bold letters, yeah?

I hope you enjoy!

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><p><em>Sherlock always smells a little bit like lavender.<em>

_-From Anonymous (at 2011-06-27 08:31 pm) on Part XVII._

**Lavandula multifida and Night Owl**

He carries a bit of lavender in his inside jacket pocket in remembrance of his Mummy, who's favourite flower was lavender - _Lavandula multifida_.

Sometimes, when things just becomes too much, he smells it and, instantly, he's back in his mother's kitchen (she'd have vases of it all over the kitchen), where'd she make him a cup of tea - just the way he likes it - and gently stroke his black curls as he worked through his bouts of anxiety that he used to get real badly when he was a kid. Everything would immediately be set back in place, the guards that Sherlock had spent years building would instantly be put back up, and Sherlock would get back to the matter at hand, able to get through the day.

Mycroft, on the other hand, carries a bit of tobacco in his inside jacket pocket in remembrance of his Father, who always had the smell on his tweed jackets and in his favourite books - _Georgetown's Night Owl Pipe Tobacco_.

Mycroft could always distinctly smell it when his Father leaned in real close to tell him something, an excited look on his face as if he had an important secret to tell him even if his news was nothing too exciting. It didn't matter - his and Sherlock's Father could make anything sound interesting, from his lectures on English literature from the early nineteenth century to his quite humourous stories about the other professors and students at the university. He had smelled that distinct scent of tobacco on a female student of his Father's when he was fifteen - he didn't say anything about it, though. He couldn't - he had to keep the family together, naturally.

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><p>AN: Well, this following one was a picture prompt, so I'll just put the words from the picture shall I?

_My Father died in an earthquake. I told Mycroft that the earthquake started 'cause he was so fat. He's been on a diet ever since._

_- From skint_writer 2011-07-09 10:59 am on Part XVII; original origin of picture unknown._

**Scherzo, piangono**

My father died when I was - uh, when I was five or so.

He died in an earthquake.

Yeah - he died in the 1980 Irpinia earthquake in southern Italy, where, incidentally, he was there - in Conza - with his mistress, a young, fit, blond girl from his early nineteenth century literature class. She, on the other hand, survived the earthquake, but became paralyzed from the waist down due to the subsequent injuries she had sustained from the earthquake. A few years later, however, she was found, locked in her dormitory, in a pool of blood after she knocked her head against a table.

At my father's funeral, I overheard my great-Aunt Wednesday whispering to my great-grandmother Morticia that God had punished him for cheating on his wife.

Ever since she had heard the news, my mother had been sitting in this big, wicker chair that was a family heirloom. She had just been sitting in fount of the window facing the driveway, as if my father's big, black car - a 1939 Rolls-Royce Wraith - would come bounding up the long, winding driveway and he would pop out, fresh-faced and grinning, in his tweed jacket, carrying some books, with a pipe in his mouth.

Whether she was sad, angry, or happy about her husband's death, no one knew. She never said and nobody ever asked.

My father's series of mistresses (as it later came out that this now paraplegic blonde was not the only woman he was seeing or had seen) weren't invited to the funeral, although, that's not to say many flowers and wreaths weren't sent to our house or placed on his grave., all of which were promptly tossed out or removed.

As I didn't know what caused earthquakes at the time - and, still, today, I have only the faintest knowledge of their causes - I loudly proclaimed that the earthquake started because my older brother, Mycroft, was so fat.

My proclamation was received by some stilted, slow chuckles, the slight turning of my mother's head in my direction, and the biting of his bottom lip by my brother.

In the summer of 1981, my brother began a diet - and has been on it ever since.

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><p><em>So, I just watched 'The Doctor's Daughter' where Doctor Who explains to Donna that he was a dad once.<em>

_John or Lestrade sees Mycroft interact with kids and they realise he'd make a brilliant father. Mycroft explains that he once was._

_Perhaps an attempt on MH's life got his partner and kids killed / his wife left him and took them with her. Up to author anon._

_- From Anonymous (at 2011-07-07 03:04 pm) Part XVII_

**Vedova**

Lestrade gently rocks his new-born daughter in his arms and he softly smiles down at her as she attempts to open her eyes and smile back at him. Instead, she gurgles out some spit. Lestrade's smile grows wider as he slowly flickers his glance at his wife, Molly, who is now deeply sleeping in the hospital bed only a few feet away from him.

She had been in labour for over twelve hours and had almost personally thrown Sherlock out of the room when he bursted in to drag Lestrade away for authorization on a case and then, failing at that, trying to peek a glance at her...nether regions. Nevertheless, to Lestrade, she looks like an angel, her muddy brown hair haphazardly tied in a messy bun, her cheeks flushed, her mouth slightly drooped, her -

Lestrade's train of thought is interrupted by a pointed clearing of the throat. He turns his gaze towards the door and finds Mycroft Holmes standing there, a small smile on his face. "Congratulations, Gregory", he says in his very formal, sort of condescending voice.

"Uh - thanks", he responds back in a cracked voice. Lestrade clears his throat and says it again in a firmer voice, "Thank you, Mycroft."

Mycroft gives him another smile and takes a few steps towards Lestrade, to get a better look at Lestrade's daughter. He glances down at her. "What's her name?"

Lestrade warily looks at Mycroft, knowing fully that he already knows the answer to that question, but is trying to be polite and friendly. Obviously, that is not the strongest suit in the Holmes family. "Dorothy." A beam of pride rises in Lestrade's chest as he turns his gaze back to his daughter. "Dorothy Sherlock Lestrade."

This is received with a quirked eyebrow from Mycroft, but he doesn't say anything. With the amount of time both mother and father has spent with his brother and the unlikelihood of Sherlock ever fathering one of his own, it's quite obvious that they'd name their daughter after him. However, when Lestrade asks him "Would you like to hold her?" that - that takes him a bit by surprise.

"Could I?" he whispers out, and what seems like hope and cheerfulness flashes across his normally calm, impassive face.

Lestrade gives Mycroft a small smile. "Of course - Sherlock's not the only Holmes brother that has saved my arse countless times." But, even then, Lestrade still cautiously places Dorothy in his arms and something hard and protective flashes in Lestrade's eyes as he carefully watches Mycroft shift Dorothy in his arms.

However, his daughter seems to fit perfectly in Mycroft's arms as he gently rocks her in his arms and coos some endearments and lullabies in Italian, French, and, Lestrade supposes, Mandarin. The fact that Mycroft is doing this with no effort at all - even though Lestrade believes that the Holmes can do anything - amazes him to no end.

After a few minutes of silence, Lestrade finally says, "Wow - you're good at this father business."

Mycroft's purses his lips together and remains silent for a few moments. "Well, I am one - well, I _used_ to be one."

Lestrade stiffens and his mind attempts to backtrack, but, no, he tells himself. If there's one thing he's learned about the Holmes through the years is to never go back. Still, what he asks next is a bit of a challenge. "Ah - what happened? If you don't mind me asking."

Mycroft clears his throat and he seems to be _thinking_ of what to say next. Lestrade can practically see the cogs working. "It happened ten years ago - my wife, Eleanor, and I took our two children, Josephine and Aldous to the countryside for a nice weekend." Lestrade sees Mycroft's throat working to swallow. "Well, I popped out to go rent a boat so that we could row to a small island across the way and" - he pauses a moment. "And, when I came back, they were - dead. Killed by a mob boss that I had pushed a bit too far."

Lestrade has to work to beat back the image of a certain anti-heroic vigilante from his thoughts. "Ah - I'm so sorry, Mycroft."

Mycroft looks up, as if surprised by Lestrade's apology. "It's alright, Gregory - but thank you anyways."

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><p><em>The first time Sherlock realizes he's in love with John is when he sees his blogger standing in the bathroom, waiting for the water to heat up in the shower, scratching his ass cheek through thread-bare, worn out Y-fronts. <em>

_Yep, pretty much my entire prompt. Art or fic fill, either way and I'm a happy ducky._

_-From Meredydd (at 2011-07-02 10:53 pm) Part XVII_

**Ma l'amo**

Perhaps he's always been in love with John, he thinks.

It's very possible.

The feelings may have been there all along, under the surface, developing out of sight and out of mind. It wouldn't be impossible, but he should have been able to realise these feelings and attempt to stop them before he was in too deep (although the likelihood of that succeeding is highly unlikely). Alas, he deduces, he was in too deeply before he realised what was going on.

If he was a more sentimental man, he would say it was love at first sight. If he was a more paranoid man, he would say it was all part of Moriarty's nefarious plan to "burn the heart out" of him.

And, now, all of these unknown and dangerous feelings are just bombarding Sherlock the moment he passes by John, standing in the bathroom, waiting for the water to heat up in the shower, absentmindedly scratching his right ass cheek through his blue, thread-bare, worn out Y-fronts.

Sherlock lets out an annoyed and resigned sigh and goes to find John's gun so he can shoot up the wall. Maybe, he'll shoot the sun since he knows where the bloody thing is located now.


	2. Chapter 2

Onwards now! (Side note: If it's in the prompt and bolded and not italicized that means it's supposed to be crossed out.

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><p><em>Sherlock hates vegetables and won't eat them, John tried to convince him. If you have John going 'Here comes the choo choo traaain~' or similar, I will love you forever<em>

__- From Anonymous ( at _2011-07-16 10:49 am) Part XVII_

**It is I! Captain Vegetable!**

"Here comes the airplane - _pewmmmmmm_!" John cheerfully says, maneuvering a spoonful of brussels spouts towards Sherlock's straight, tight line of a mouth.

"Stop it, John", Sherlock somehow says clearly and with a thick level of disdain and annoyance without opening his mouth wide enough to shove the spoon in. "If I wasn't going to eat them voluntarily, or with threats of punishment, or with pleas, what makes you think I'll eat them as they fly towards me as you do your ridiculous sound effects?"

John stares at Sherlock with a blank look. They had been here for almost half an hour, John trying to get Sherlock to eat, at least, a brussels spout. They have done this everyday for the past two weeks, with a variety of vegetables, from around six to seven, which all ended with John letting out a defeated sigh and throwing the vegetables away.

All the same, John cheerfully returns to his duty. "Here comes the choo choo train!" He slowly moves the spoon towards Sherlock, "Chugga, chugga, chugga, chugga, chugga - _CHOO CHOO_!"

He's an inch away from Sherlock's mouth when Sherlock swiftly whips out his hand and knocks the spoon and its disgusting content out of John's ironclad grasp onto the carpet. They both look at the mess, Sherlock waiting for John just to give up for the night, when John slowly picks up a fork and stabs a carrot with it. "_It is I! Captain Vegetable! With my carrot and celery!_" he sings out in a loud, melodic, still somewhat cracky voice.

Sherlock, once again, knocks the utensil and vegetable out of John's hand. "_It is I! Captain Fist! A demerit and_" - Sherlock is promptly silenced by the greasy hit of a brussels spout against his cheek. He slowly lifts up his hand and wipes the cheesy residue from his face, all the while staring at John's determined face. He then, slowly, reaches for a piece of carrot and promptly throws it at John.

John, with his high level of combat, easily escapes the steamed vegetable and dives under the table where, in the coarse of the meal, are remnants of John's failure and of Sherlock's stubbornness. "Ah, ha, ha!" John shouts as he throws a piece of carrot at Sherlock. "_It is I! Captain Vegetable! With my carrot and celery!_" he sings again as both he and Sherlock start chucking vegetables at each other.

"You don't even have celery!" Sherlock yells at him from behind the turned over coffee table as he narrowly dodges a piece of the dreaded broccoli.

"Tra-la-la!" John whips open the fridge and grabs a stalk of celery from a plastic bag. "Now I do!" he holds it up for Sherlock to see before he throws it, like a dagger, at Sherlock. It moves, gracefully, in the air, spinning towards Sherlock, when, suddenly - Mrs. Hudson walks through the door, cooing out a "Woo-Hoo?", and is promptly hit on the forehead with the green, watery veggie.

"Wha" - she whispers out as both Sherlock and John quickly stop fighting, wiping the smirks off their faces, and placing their hands behind their backs. "What are you boys doing?" she asks with thinly veiled anger.

"I was - I was trying to get Sherlock to eat his vegetables", John says sheepishly as he toed a smashed brussels spout, feeling like a little boy again in a matter of seconds.

"And you thought that throwing it at him would work?" she shrieks, eyeing Sherlock.

"At the time, yes - yes, ma'am."

"You boys - clean this up... _now_", she sternly tells them before turning on her heels and exiting the flat.

"Yes ma'am" and "Yes'm", is muttered out from John and Sherlock as they both get on their knees and start picking up the debris and miscellanies of their food fight. "_It is I... Captain Vegetable ... with my carrot and celery_", John quietly whispers to himself as he grabs a runaway brussels spout.

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><p><em>This is Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the world. He is about to fight his archenemy all by himself, which will result in faking his own death and three years of hiding from the rest of the world to keep himself and his BFF safe.<em>

_This all could have been avoided if John Watson were a sassy gay friend._  
><em>... don't ask.<em>

_- From annievh _(at 2011-07-25 09:08 pm) Part XVIII__

**And No Advertisements from MiO! I swear!**

This is Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective. He is about to fight his archenemy all by himself at the Falls of Reichenbach, which will result in faking his own death and three years of hiding from the rest of the world to keep himself and his BFF safe.

This fate could have been avoided if John Watson was a sassy gay friend.

"What're you doing? What - what - what're you doing?" John shrieks at Sherlock, popping out from seemingly nowhere. Suddenly, heavy beats boom and bright lights flash from out of nowhere.

"What the hell? - " Sherlock lets out before John's high-pitched nagging interrupts him.

"Oh, that's smart - _let's fight_ the psychopath by ourselves, shall we? And really? Next to waterfalls, no less. The nineteenth century called, they want their climatic ending back, please."

"But - it's the only way that I can defeat Moriarty and protect my - "

"From whom? Moran is _still going_ to know you're alive. The only thing you accomplish here is going from a hottie to a nottie."

Sherlock responds with a sullen look and glancing at his shoes.

"P. S.", John pauses dramatically before pointing at Sherlock's black curls. "Your hair has never looked better."

"Really?"

"Yes, and you were going to get it wet! C'mon, you stupid betch", John lightly touches Sherlock's shoulder and leads him away from the waterfall's edge. "He's a stupid betch", John smugly smiles out before throwing his peach, glittery scarf over his neck.

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><p><em>In honor of yesterday's doodle and the sheer number of times I had to explain it to people:<em>

_Gimme SCIENCE. Sherlock explaining something technical and complex to John, the Yarders, Mrs. Hudson, anyone. Because I am a geek _**and this is what gets me hot it would be cool.**_ *innocent look*_

__- From Anonymous (at 2011-07-21 01:18 pm) Part XVIII__

**Zur Elektrodynamik bewegter Körper**

"Don't you see John? Can't you see it?" Sherlock fiercely whispers to him, pointing to a circle with lines wildly growing from it with a blank fountain pen. It is currently after midnight on a Tuesday and they have been here for the past five hours. Sherlock is wearing a wrinkled white button-up shirt, with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the first three buttons are open, showing a marble pale, marble like collarbone and chest with little puffs of dark hair peeking through. His black locks sit atop of his head, messy, where he has been agitatedly raking his fingers through, trying to get John to understand him. Lastly, there are blue and black pen stains on the tips of his long fingers and the palms of his hands.

There's something wild and passionate in his eyes when he attempts his attack again. "Time is not uniform and absolute, you see." He grabs a blank sheet of paper from under a stack. "Therefore, physics can't be understood as just space and time. Instead - an added dimension has to be taken into account with curved spacetime. Time depends on velocity, and contraction are a fundamental consequence at appropriate speeds", he quickly draws a rough sphere gently laying on a quilt of spacetime curvature.

"What Einstein had done was supersede Newton's two hundred year old theory of mechanics - all motion is relative, is, basically, what he says." Sherlock warily picks his bleary eyes from his chicken scratch and brings them to a rest on John's half-opened eyes. "Now do you get it?"

"Hm?" John murmurs out as he picks his tired face from the comfort of his fist. "Yes, I suppose I do - but that still doesn't explain why there's a brain in the vegetable chiller."

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><p>AN: 'Kay now _this _one seems to deviate from the pervious ones (besides the Sassy Gay Friend two above, but that's just crack you dig?) - the universe I seemed to have built up has Father Holmes dying in an earthquake when Sherlock was five and Mycroft was a teenager, Mycroft's family has been murdered, Molly and Lestrade are married (and have a daughter), and Sherlock and John are together. It _could _be placed in this universe as well, but that's debatable.

***(Semi-minor spoilers)***

_remember that Halloween ep of NCIS where Abby showed up at the lab in her Marilyn Monroe costume? __I want something like that, except Molly dressed as Harley Quinn, in the skin-tight acrobat's leotard and jester's motley and a big-ass foam hammer. and if someone wonder's who Molly's Joker is, that could be fun too._

_- From Anonymous (at 2011-06-20 11:12 pm) Part XVI_

**Hey, Puddin'**

Molly Hooper is awkwardly standing against a wall at a Halloween party, dressed as Harley Quinn with a giant, foam hammer at her feet. She watches while the other partygoers meet and mingle (she sees a Playboy Mate go off with a man dressed as a carrot). She heaves out a resigned melancholy sigh and takes another sip of her second glass of punch (heavily laden, she suspects, with liquor, but she doesn't mind).

That's when she notices the unmistakable green hair of her partner and then his sharp, purple suit. That's him, most definitely him. Right, she thinks to herself as she straightens her black and red jumpsuit and then the black eye-mask and headpiece. She grabs her hammer and confidently strolls right up to him, her gloved hands digging into the foam for support.

He notices her when she's over halfway there and, she could be mistaken though, one side of his mouth is in an upward curve as if he's trying to hide a grin. "Knock, knock Puddin'", she purrs to him in her most Harley Quinn voice as she leans towards him.

"Y'know", he starts in a husky, Irish lilt. "My father used to beat me up pretty badly." Her smile wavers only a tad at that. But, he soon barks out a laugh that is the most Joker-like this side of Mark Hamill that sends shivers down her spine. She quickly adds to his maniacal laughing with her own high-pitched giggle as the other partygoers slowly eases their way away from the duo.

It seemed like they would live happily ever after.

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><p>AN: These next two are of the same prompt; just the first is cracky and the other is serious.

_Irene is the only person to ever make Sherlock cry to a song._

_-From annievh (at 2011-06-19 04:09 pm) Part XVI_

**Campfire Song song (Cracky)**

After John makes the campfire, the four gather around it, trying to warm themselves after a long day of hiking and running. "What should we do now?" John asks quietly.

"We could sing some campfire songs to raise our spirits", Mycroft says, his words marinated in sarcasm.

"Alright!" Irene says cheerfully, a grin beaming on her face as she pulls a guitar out from behind her back. She starts playing out a jolly ditty. "I call this one the "Campfire Song" Song -

_Let's gather 'round the campfire_

_And sing the Campfire Song_

_Our C-A-M-P-F-I-R-E S-O-N-G Song_

_And if you don't think, we can sing it faster than you're wrong_

_But it'll help if you just sing alonggggg..."_

Sherlock's breathe hitches as John eagerly added, "bum, bum, buuuum." He knows something exciting is about to happen. Irene then strums the guitar faster as she speedily sings through the next chorus,

_"C-A-M-P-F-I-R-E S-O-N-G Song_

_C-A-M-P-F-I-R-E S-O-N-G Song_

_And if you don't think, we can sing it faster than you're wrong_

_But it'll help if you just sing along_

_C-A-M-P-F-I-R-E S-O-N-G Song_

_C-A-M-P-F-I-R-E S-O-N-G Song_

_And if you don't think, we can sing it faster than you're wrong_

_But it'll help if you just sing alonggggg..."_

She points to John, "John!"

"Song! Song!" he yells, his hands in fists, not being able to keep up with the fast-paced song.

"Good!" She then points to Mycroft, "Mycroft!"

Mycroft gives her a long-suffering look as he stares off into the distance, desperately trying to imagine himself anywhere but here. "Good!"

_But it'll help!_

But it'll help!

If you just sing aloooooong... Oh yeah!"

She gently places the guitar down and folds her hands on her stomach. "Wasn't that relaxing?" she asks to no one in particular.

A choked sob breaks the silence that has overcome the campsite. Irene, John, and Mycroft all look at Sherlock, who has tears streaking down his face. "That... was... the most beautiful song I've _ever_ heard", he whispers out.

**Otello (serious)**

Sherlock reaches for his black trench coat and blue scarf, hanging on the doorposts. "We're going to the opera on Friday, John."

"The opera?" John's face becomes quizzical.

Sherlock ties his scarf around his neck. "Yes, the opera - you know, where singers and musicians perform dramatic texts combining a musical score and text", he tells John, it marinated in sarcasm.

John pointedly rolls his eyes at him. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm fully aware _what_opera is - I just never knew that you liked it."

Now, Sherlock pointedly rolls his eyes at him. "I'm not as reclusive and deprived as you think, John. I _do_have likes and dislikes."

"Right, but you have more dislikes than likes, if you ask me."

Sherlock ignores this, shrugs into his coat, and then adjusts his scarf and collar as he exits the flat. "Goodbye, John", he calls out to him, throwing a wave over his shoulder, and going down the stairs.

"Wait!" John barely gets up from his chair, his hand gripping onto his laptop, as he watches Sherlock disappear from his limited view. "Where you going?"

"St. Barts", Sherlock's voice floats up, then John hears the slamming of the fount door.

"John... John." Sherlock's baritone voice broke through John's sleepy haze. "John... come on."

"Ugh", John moaned in response as he rolled over in bed.

"The opera starts in an hour, John. You have five minutes to get ready; it'll take us forty-five minutes to get to the theatre." Sherlock walks out of John's room and down the stairs. "I'll be downstairs."

"I'm not going", John mutters lowly, but loud enough for Sherlock to hear. "You've kept me up since yesterday morning, making me run around London like an errand boy. Besides... I don't even like opera."

Sherlock remains unfazed by this and John can hear Sherlock's voice float up from downstairs. "Five minutes John."

John pulls the duvet over his head and closes his eyes again. He remains like this for almost thirty seconds before he moans out in defeat, throws the duvet off, and trudges to his wardrobe. He hastily puts on his suit and, when he finally does come downstairs, Sherlock has already hailed a cab.

"Ah, John...you had twenty seconds to spare before I left without you." A smile tugs on the corner of Sherlock's lips. "I'm so glad that you've decided to come along."

John mutters under his breath as he climbs into the cab behind Sherlock. The cab, however, takes over fifty minutes to get there and, when Sherlock is practically pushing John out, he's shouting insults at the cabbie. "And your wife's cheating on you!" is the last statement shouted at the cabbie before John shoots the cabbie an apologetic look and gently shuts the door.

"That was a bit much, don't you think?" John asks Sherlock, agitation edging into his voice, as the cab speeds off.

"Well, he deserved it anyhow", Sherlock responds, tugging John's coat sleeve to the entrance. "That bloody idiot made us late!" He drags John into the theatre, into a private box, and, just as the lights are dimming, Sherlock and John take their seats.

"Sherlock", John whispers to him. "What opera is this?"

He shushes John harshly and John gives him a face. He repeats his question again as the orchestra starts playing. An oboe rings out a sorrowful melody until some flutes and some other instruments that John couldn't exactly named joins it. Sherlock lets out a sigh. "Fourth act of Verdi's Otello - there, now quiet."

The orchestra plays for almost two and a half minutes before the curtain rises and a beautiful woman with pale skin and long, black, curly locks in a cream coloured, expensive looking, flowing dress rushes out, clearly in distress, closely followed by a plain-looking woman, who, John assumed was her handmaiden.

She turns to her handmaiden and begins to sing to her in a soft, mournful voice. _"Mi parea. M'ingiunse di coricarmi"..._

And, so, John sits for the next twenty minutes or so and listens to this beautiful woman sing sorrowfully to her handmaiden until she kneels at her bed and prays.

_"Amen."_

The curtain closes and people start clapping and applauding wildly, standing in ovation. John glances over to Sherlock and notices that his hands are over his face, as if he's trying to cover something up. "Sherlock?" John warily asks him.

"Yes, John?" He sounds a bit choked up. He slowly lets his hands fall off his face and looks at John. "What did you think of it?"

Sherlock's eyes are somewhat puffy and red, but John doesn't mention it, instead he lazily shrugs. "I thought it was good."

"Good? Is that all you have to say?" Sherlock suddenly stands up and gestures for John to come along. "Desdemona was upset that her husband thought she was cheating on him - of course, she wasn't - and couldn't you hear her pain?" he tells John, desperately, as if he was a brother trying to explain a difficult, but simple concept to his younger brother.

They exit the theatre. "Oh, I figured it was over a bloke", John says simply as they pass by posters advertising for 'Otello', showing Desdemona, with a name below her picture reading, _Irene Adler_.

* * *

><p><em>Moriarty succeeds in killing Sherlock at the pool. And he's happy about it, but soon enough he realizes there's something missing in his life. It's not just that he's bored, that no one will play the game game anymore, it's that no one's even smart enough to see the game anymore unless he makes it painfully obvious. There's no one to understand the subtleties of his plans, no one who understands just how stupid and dull everyone else is. Moriarty saw a kindred spirit in Sherlock and now he's gone. And it's driving him slowly mad. <em>

_Maybe it ends with Moriarty in an insane institution, maybe he just turns himself in to the police because there's no point in it anymore. I just want Moriarty regretting that he killed Sherlock _**and loosing his mind over it**.

_- From Anonymous (at 2011-08-04 09:43 am) Part XVIII_

***SPOILERS!***

**Patient 112176**

"And now we come to 'Patient 112176', otherwise known to the public as Jim Moriarty", the middle-aged doctor with graying hair says to a group of interns as they round a corner. They hurriedly scribble this down on their clipboards. He points to the small, observation glass on the cream-coloured, metal door as they all collectively stop. "He came here about three years ago, a few months after killing Sherlock Holmes... you all know who Sherlock Holmes is, right?"

They all solemnly nod their heads, as if remembering a close friend.

"When he was brought here, he rambled about 'Sherlock Holmes' very often and was prone to violent mood swings. But, overall, his state could be described as listless." The doctor pauses to glance at the glass. "It was concluded, based on his rambles and mutters that he believed that the ghost of Sherlock Holmes was haunting him and that the only way that Sherlock would go away would be if he turned himself in." The doctor pushes up his drooping glasses. "However, it is now known that he had a serious nervous breakdown due to regrets of killing Sherlock Holmes and the resulting ennui."

A brave student in the fount slowly raises his hand. The doctor cocks an eyebrow at him, "Yes, Thorne?"

Thorne licks his lips before asking in a meek, unsure voice, "Why did he regret killing Holmes?"

"Ah... good question", he nods in thought. He then sighs before saying, "Well, it is my belief that due to the death of his intellectual counterpart, Moriarty soon found the rest of the world dull and dim. You could say that he saw a 'kindred spirit' in Sherlock Holmes and, after his death, he could find no other. He became bored, to put it simply. It's the boredom that kills you. You read until you're tired of that. You do crossword puzzles until you're tired of that. It's torture - it's mental torture." The doctor sighs once more time and glances into the room.

In faded white, thin scrubs, eagle-spread on the floor was Moriarty, his brown hair cut close to the skin and speckled with white, completely unmoving. If the doctors could see his face, they would see empty eyes, void of their once dancing brilliance.

There was an odd silence everywhere, even in the other rooms; it was as if the whole world had tactfully turned away to avoid seeing him go mad.

"Come along", the doctor finally says quickly turning around and strolling to the next patient.

At the end of the day, the doctor leaves for home. "See you tomorrow, Dr. Wayne", the security guard tells him at the fount gate as he pulls out from the iron gate in fount of the Victorian styled hospital. Dr. Wayne drives to central London and pulls in fount of 221 Baker Street. He gets out and makes his way up to 221B. There he finds a stocky, blond man reading a newspaper in an armchair. "All is well, John", he says simply to the man before running his hand through his hair. As he drops his hand to his side, his gray hair comes off to reveal messy black curls underneath.

_A/N: Just a side note and fact, 11-21-76 is Andrew Scott's (the fellow who plays Moriarty) birthday._


End file.
